Carla’s gut churned. She had only coffee to vomit, but nothing would stop it from coming. Wild-eyed, she pushed her way around Tanya, stumbled toward the hall. Leslie called her name, but she barely registered, didn’t care. All she wanted was to get to the bathroom, as far off by herself as possible.
By the time she hit the hall, tears gushed and her vision blurred. The pent-up sobs of sixteen years finally erupted — deep, loud, ugly sobs from the depths of her being. Her arms waved, smacking against the walls. She saw the first door on the left, the second, leading to a bathroom — but kept going. Farther on, away from everyone, everything. Into the master suite, slamming the bedroom door, lurching across the carpet. She wobbled onto the linoleum floor of the bathroom and banged its door behind her. Punched in the lock. Teetered to the toilet and threw back its lid. Sank to her knees.
Carla heaved and cried, heaved and cried, hanging onto the porcelain for all she was worth.
SEVENTY-THREE
Five minutes after eight.
Darkness had fallen, street lights glowing up and down Sprague, the private lamps bright in the Chrysler dealership lot. Tony sat stiffly behind the wheel of the Explorer, one nervous finger about to rub a hole in his jaw. He and Jilke had traded places so Jilke could make phone calls once they started to tail Blond Boy — if the kid ever got off work. Tony was beginning to wonder if the dealership stayed open until midnight.
The two men had planned what to do when they found their targets. Tanya Evans would be shot on sight. She had nothing to tell them, Jilke said. Anyone else in the vicinity — wherever that might be — would be shot as well. Hit fast, hit furious, and leave no witnesses behind. Carla Radling would stay alive only long enough to tell them what she’d taken from her house, where it was, and who else knew about it. Forcing her to talk would not be hard. Tony had pulled a small black duffel bag from the Taurus. In it lay the knife he’d bought that morning and other important items — rope, duct tape, a cloth, a small bottle of chloroform. No flashlight. Its beam across windows in a darkened house just might spook the neighbors. Tony also had two guns — the compact Chief Special he’d almost lost in the Chrysler parking lot, and a powerful Marui Glock 26 with a GB-Tech AAC Scorpion Silencer. With fifteen bullets in the magazine and a solid safety feature that blocked the trigger, the Glock was the perfect weapon in situations that required speed and maneuverability.
“There he is.” Jilke gestured with his chin toward the dealership. Blond Boy was coming out of the Chrysler showroom, making a beeline toward what they assumed was his own car. He glanced around more than once.
“He’s looking for you.” Accusation coated Jilke’s voice. He’d already made it very clear that Tony’s two screw-ups spelled the end of his fat paychecks. Tony didn’t care. He just wanted to get himself and his family out of this alive.
Blond Boy got in his car, started the engine, and pulled out onto Sprague. Tony counted to five and followed. His heart rattled against his ribs. If the kid failed to lead them straight to Carla, Jilke just might shoot Tony in pure rage.
On the cell phone, Jilke read off the kid’s license plate to one of his men. Blond Boy turned onto the freeway, heading west. A few miles up, he exited and veered south. By the time he turned right into a short cul-de-sac of fairly new homes, Jilke had the kid’s name and address. His house was not on this street.
“Come on, Brandon, you’re our boy. Lead on.” Jilke leaned forward, drumming his fingers against the dashboard.
Tony passed the cul-de-sac, made a U-turn, then pulled over to the left curb, facing the wrong way. He cut the SUV’s lights and edged forward until they could see the salesman’s car in front of a house at the bottom of the street, some four homes down. Brandon had pulled up behind a dark-colored pickup. A streetlamp some distance away provided just enough light for them to watch Brandon open his trunk and pull out a suitcase. He closed the trunk and wheeled the case up the short sidewalk. Rang the bell. His body was now fully lit under a porch light, as was the suitcase. It was red.
Bingo.
SEVENTY-FOUR
When Carla ran down the hall, Leslie jumped up to follow and make sure she was all right. Tanya shook her head. “Let her go. It’s too much, she needs time.”
Much as she didn’t want to admit it, Leslie knew Tanya was right.
Fingers clenched, Leslie sank back into the chair. She stared at Tanya, rage knocking around her ribs. For all Tanya’s tears, Leslie couldn’t stand the sight of her. All these years, living her lie. Costing Carla her own daughter. Forget what Tanya said; nobody forced her to do what she did. “Why didn’t God do anything to stop it?” What a crock. Maybe He did, Tanya — maybe He put you there so you could stand up for the truth.
A car door slammed out front. Leslie pushed from the chair and moved to the window behind the couch, nudging aside the curtain. A blond guy was pulling a suitcase from the trunk of his car.
Brandon. She’d almost forgotten.
She stepped back. Wiped her eyes, ran fingers through her hair as she headed for the door. The bell rang before she could open.
The guy stood on the porch, overhead light spilling on his short hair. He had sky blue eyes and a large Band-Aid under his chin. “Hi,” Leslie said. “You must be Brandon.”
He smiled. “And you’re Leslie. I recognize you from TV.”
She nodded. Peered around him up the street. No one visible, no cars.
He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back. “I didn’t see a black Durango anywhere. And believe me, I know what they look like. Used to drive one.”
“Good.” Still, after what she’d just heard, Leslie knew Carla and Tanya were in terrible danger. They were ants against a roaring lion.
“I tried to call you on the way over,” Brandon said. “No answer. Good thing you’d already given me directions.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Leslie forced her overfilled brain to think. “I put my phone on vibrate awhile ago when . . . we didn’t want to be interrupted. And it was in my purse, so I didn’t hear any buzz.”
A vague sound filtered from the other end of the house — a sob from Carla.
Brandon’s eyebrows rose. “Everything okay?”
Leslie licked her lips. “Look, an awful lot’s happening here. I’d ask you in but I can’t. Thank you for bringing Carla’s suitcase.”
He mashed his lips together and tilted his head. “Okay.” He pushed down the long suitcase handle, picked up the bag. Leslie caught sight of another Band-Aid on his right hand. “Let me just stick this inside for you.”
Leslie stood back to allow him in, willing him to hurry. Only a minute or two had passed since she opened the door, but already she felt exposed, as if the night sprouted eyes. “Thanks. I really am sorry I have to rush you.”
He stepped back onto the porch. “Can I call you tomorrow? Make sure everyone’s okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Just — please don’t tell anyone where we are. Although we won’t be here much longer.” The minute Carla calmed down, Leslie needed to get her and Tanya in the car headed to Kanner Lake — to Chief Edwards and safety.
Chief Edwards. Had she missed a phone call from him too?
“Okay.” Brandon gave her a lopsided smile. “I just hope someday I get to hear what this is all about.”
Leslie thought of Brittany Hanley. Rebecca. Had the girl confronted her mother? Teenagers were stubborn. Would she drive this thing until she learned the truth? Leslie swallowed. “You just might.” Along with the rest of the world.
Brandon turned to leave. Leslie watched him walk halfway down the sidewalk, then closed and bolted the door. As she wheeled the suitcase to the corner of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, she heard his car door slam and the vehicle drive away.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Tony and Jilke watched as Brandon stepped back onto the porch — without the suitcase. Tony narrowed his eyes. “That gal who answered the door. Was that Leslie Brymes — the reporter from Kanner Lake?”
Ji
lke growled. “I do believe so. And no doubt a friend of Carla’s.”
Brandon got back in his car.
“Looks like he’s cutting out.” Jilke worked his long jaw side to side, then shrugged. “We know where he lives. We’ll catch up with him when we’re done here. He’s bound to know too much.” Jilke glanced over his shoulder. “Turn back around. Let’s circle the block, see where we can leave the car. We’ll go in from the rear.”
Minutes later they rolled down the dark street behind the house where Brandon had gone. Here, older houses had been turned into small businesses — a gift boutique, a massage clinic, dental office. All was now quiet. One streetlamp down the way did little to light the area in which they stopped. They cut the engine and got out. Tony carried the duffel bag, the Chief Special in his front pants pocket. Jilke demanded the Glock. Tony had no choice but to give it over, even as he knew he was probably sealing his own death warrant. Jilke handled the weapon with familiar precision, checking the safety, running admiring fingers down the silencer.
He caught Tony’s expression, and his smugness returned. “You think I’ve spent all my life behind a desk?”
They hurried onto the massage clinic’s parking lot and around to the back. A fence bordered the yards for the cul-de-sac homes. They came up to it, measuring the houses’ positions against their memories of the street.
Tony pointed left, to a house where every light blazed. “That one. Next door.”
“Yeah.”
Tony tossed the duffel bag on the other side of the fence and climbed over.
SEVENTY-SIX
Leslie stood near the suitcase, her mind on overload. What to do now? The last thing she wanted to do was talk to Tanya. She turned down the hall, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. Sat on the closed toilet seat and stared at the wall. She still couldn’t believe what was happening. Where would this all end? If this news got out — the world would change.
Some time passed — Leslie wasn’t sure how long. She wandered back toward the entryway, thinking she really should check on Carla soon. If she didn’t appear in five minutes, Leslie was going in after her. They needed to get out of here.
Tanya was in the kitchen, pulling a mug from a cupboard. She moved to the sink. What was she going to do, make tea? Leslie closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead. She needed to get her cell phone. Check in with Chief Edwards.
Where was her purse anyway?
Kitchen table.
She headed forward to walk around the long eating counter when a sound stopped her cold. A puncture of glass from the side kitchen window.
Tanya’s head jerked. Her hands flew up, the mug clattering from her fingers into the sink. She collapsed to the floor with a sickening thud.
Shot. She’d been shot.
Every light in the house clicked off.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Leslie froze in her steps. Her brain flashed white, unable to process. Then thoughts flew in like locusts buzzing her head. Her skin crawled.
Tanya — dead?
Carla?
Cell phone.
A muted pfft, pfft. Metal clanging onto kitchen floor. The back door lock? Glass shattering. A door pushed open. A footstep.
Leslie fled. Down the hall she ran on silent feet, right hand trailing the wall for guidance. Her fingers hit the wood of the master bedroom door, felt for the knob. The cool metal turned in her hot hand. She slipped through the door, locked it. Stumbled forward, arms waving through thick, claustrophobic air. Where was the bed, the dresser, the bathroom? Get to Carla, get to Carla.
No, 911!
How far away was Thornby? How long before he explored every room and shot through this door?
Leslie’s forearm banged a piece of furniture. Dresser. She was on the right side of the room. Leslie reached out, grabbed its corner, feeling her way down to its other end. Hit blank wall, exploring with her palms. She reached a doorway.
Bathroom. Carla.
Her fingers skittered across wood, seeking the knob. Tried to turn it.
Locked.
She shook the door. “Carla!” She could only spit a vehement whisper. “Carla!”
Sound on the other side. The door opened. Leslie could barely make out Carla’s shape.
“What’s happened? The lights?” Carla sounded like a lost child.
“Thornby’s here.”
A cry sounded in her throat.
“There’s a window in here, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But . . . it’s high.”
“Open it and get out. Now. I’m dialing 911, then I’m right behind you.”
“But — ”
Leslie shoved her. “Go!”
Swiveling, Leslie struggled for her bearings. She needed to cross the room at an angle. The phone sat on the nightstand to the right of the bed.
She stumbled three steps. Four, five. Six. Her knee brushed fabric. She felt around. The small armchair against the back wall. Too far.
Leslie veered left. After an eternity her leg hit bedcovers. She bent over, sliding her hands to the right toward the head of the bed, up, up, until she touched the nightstand.
Her hands fumbled for the phone.
She felt books, a pen, a glasses case. Lamp base. Her heart beat up her throat. She dragged in air, fingers reading the foreign Braille world of the table. Her hands moved toward the back of the nightstand. Nothing. Around the front of the lamp, toward the back on the other side. She hit the hard plastic phone base. Small, the kind that housed an upright extension phone. She jerked her hand up to grab the receiver — and knocked it off its stand. It rattled off the back of the table.
Oh, God, oh, Jesus, please help me!
She staggered a step, feeling for the wall, slipping her hand down between it and the nightstand, hitting baseboard . . . carpet. Her spider fingers scrabbled forward. Touched the receiver. She yanked it up.
Hunched over, she ran her fingers over the surface, searching for the “talk” button. She punched one after another. Nothing. Forced herself to slow down, think. Remember the layout of a normal phone. She slid her hand toward the top of all the keys, found the button that must be right and pressed. Nothing. Punched again, one, two, three times.
Nothing.
Thornby had cut the phone wires.
In a suspended second, her body reeled back to the murders of last March — to the cabin that flipped into blackness just like now. With her inside.
This time there would be no one to help.
The bedroom door rattled.
Leslie gasped. Flung the phone to the carpet and dropped to her knees. She flattened herself down, lying parallel to the bed and facing the bathroom. Lifted the floor-length coverlet and pressed herself as far beneath the bed as she could get — which wasn’t far. She pulled the coverlet over the rest of her body.
Pfft.
Wood splintered. The door flung open.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
The bathroom smelled like vomit. At least Carla was done throwing up. Before the light went out, she’d staggered to her feet, rinsed out her mouth and splashed her face. Then she’d slid to the floor again, her back against the cold side of the bathtub, utterly worn. When the world went black, her mind didn’t grasp the obvious possible reason. She’d been too immersed in thoughts of her daughter.
Thornby is here.
Her body shook. She had no more energy. No more. Any minute now she would pass out. Part of her didn’t care. Too much, too fast. She just couldn’t handle it all.
Rebecca. Do it for Rebecca.
Carla’s eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, her vision aided by the dim filter of light from a parking lot beyond the backyard. She closed the toilet lid and stood on it, holding onto a towel rack above it with her left hand. The window began on her right, at the edge of the toilet, and ran over to the bathtub. She unlocked it, then reached for the crank at the bottom of the window and turned it hard. Heard the gentle creak of opening. The glass swung out, away from her. She c
ranked until the thing would turn no more, thrust her hand into the opening. Hit wire mesh.
A screen. She needed something to knock it out. What?
A shoe. But she’d taken hers off in the living room.
She scrambled down from the toilet lid, yanked open a deep drawer beside the sink. Pulled out the first thing her fingers closed upon. A blow dryer. She jumped back up on the toilet and punched the screen with the side of the dryer. It held fast. She hit it twice more. The screen crunched, then fell away. She heard a slight whoosh, then a muted metallic clang as its frame hit ground. Sounded like it landed on grass.
I hope.
Noise from the bedroom — Leslie knocking against something? She should be here any minute.
The window was about chest high. Could she even make it?
Carla grabbed the sill with weak hands and launched herself into the air.
She hit the wood hard, knocking air from her lungs. The hard crank rammed against her breastbone. For an interminable moment she hung there like a scarecrow, then pushed herself farther over the sill. There she balanced, feet dangling in the bathroom, head tilted toward dark lawn six feet below.
From the bedroom, the sound of a man’s voice.
Where was Leslie?
She wriggled, thinking to go back, save her friend. But she lost her pivot point . . . teetered forward.
Carla tumbled into the night.
SEVENTY-NINE
Leslie dared not move.
“Hey. In here.” A man’s voice.
She stiffened. Two of them?
Brandon.
Could that be? Was he a ruse all along?
Surely Leslie’s heart would give her away. It pounded so hard the floor beneath her shook. Blood whooshed in her ears. Her body sucked up oxygen, wanting more, more. The heavy coverlet cocooned her in heat, every breath stifling. She longed for fresh air, her mouth wide open, inhaling, exhaling, chin trembling against the carpet.
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